Mended
by Permanent Rose
Summary: Emma's sick of getting hurt, and the last thing she wants is to rely on Will. But when circumstances throw her into an unexpected situation, she realizes just how much she needs him. Emma/Will


The flowers are dead.

They've been dead for a while now, but somehow, you've just noticed now. Regretfully, you take the wastebasket over to the table beside the window, sweeping the fallen petals off the surface.

The dried petals are fragile beneath your touch, crumbling easily. Lately, you've felt no stronger than these withered petals.

You watch the petals flutter to the bottom of the trashcan, biting your lip as you swallow the lump in your throat. Of course the flowers couldn't last forever; you knew that.

But it doesn't make it any easier, seeing the dead petals resting limply at the bottom of the metal trashcan. They're dead, just like you, like your relationship with Will, like any hope you ever dared to have.

It's been a week and three days since you confronted Will in the faculty lounge. Yes, you're counting, because honestly you have nothing better to do.

You're angry and bitter, but you miss him terribly.

That's why you kept the flowers.

You were going to throw them away, right there in your office trashcan. That would really show him. You felt smug as you even dared to formulate those thoughts; you wanted him to pass by and see the lovely blossoms thoughtlessly disposed in the trash.

But you couldn't make yourself.

You couldn't do it.

You couldn't dispose of the lovely assortment of flowers he had picked for you. You couldn't throw away that piece of him.

So you took them home, placing them in a simple vase in your bedroom, gazing at the bitterly each night before heading to bed.

Now you look at the empty table, letting out a heavy sigh as you realize the fantasy you had been holding on to is now truly diminished. Though the table has been empty for far longer than it had held the flowers, the vacant surface looks terribly out of place.

It's not very late—only nine o'clock—but you can think of nothing better to do than crawl under the covers, trying to forget about the flower remains in the wastebasket beside your bed.

The empty gnawing in your stomach is worse than it usually is. The anxiety of the entire situation has thrown your body out of whack, so you're becoming accustomed to the physical discomforts and loss of appetite that has been accompanying your heartache.

You don't think twice about the sharp pain in your side as pull the covers up to your chin, begging for sleep to claim you.

XXXXX

The pain is worse when you wake at five to begin your tedious morning ritual. You whimper softly as you slide out of bed, cupping your side with your hands as you stumble toward the bathroom.

You're probably just hungry, you try to reassure yourself. You had half a blueberry muffin yesterday for breakfast, and you had forgotten to eat for the remainder of the day. You listlessly shower, massaging your side as you try to will the sharp pain to go away.

You dress in a pleated grey pencil skirt embellished with a rather large bow along the waistline. You match it with musky purple blouse with a lacey rose attached to the neckline and a pair of sensible black pumps.

When it's time to start your make up and hair, the pain in your side has you practically doubled over. You manage to stumble toward the bed, falling back against the soft comforter. It feels better when you're not standing; you curl you knees toward your chest, breathing deeply as you wait for the pain to subside.

You feel a little better as you stand, feeling slightly shaken. You pull your hair back into an uncharacteristic ponytail, and you find yourself rushing through your makeup routine as you try to apply your mascara with a steady hand. You settle for minimal makeup, heading toward the kitchen to grab something to eat before you need to leave.

Eating doesn't help the pain, but at least it doesn't make it worse, either. You manage to drive to school, the pain in your side increasing considerably. As you climb out of your Volvo, you grab your side, fighting tears as the pain overcomes you. Maybe you should've stayed home, but you're already here, and the thought of getting back in the car and driving in this condition leaves your head swimming.

It's better you're here, you tell yourself as you slowly make your way through the entrance of the high school. At home, you'd be curled up in a ball, dwelling on your pain. Here, you'll be busy to keep your mind off it.

It's hard to find a comfortable position as you sit in your desk chair, and your eyes are watering from biting down on your lip so harshly. You know there's something terribly wrong, and for a moment, you're overcome by a heightened wave of panic.

You scan through the possible diagnoses in your head. It's not because you're hungry, and you doubt it's constipation cramps because you've hardly even consumed anything in the past few days. It can't be your period, because you had that last week, and you never have cramps this severe from menstruating.

Your mind dares to consider a more serious condition—something like appendicitis, but isn't that when the pain is localized on your right side? This pain is _everywhere _on your abdominal region, so you nix that idea.

You'll call the doctor if the pain doesn't subside by the time you get home this evening, you reason.

(You won't. Even the possibility of being told you need to go into the hospital is enough to deter you.)

You try paging through your SAT prep outline to plan for your class tomorrow afternoon, but the pain is making it difficult. You're rocking in your seat, willing for it to at least subside slightly.

You hear a gentle knock on your door, and through the glass panes, you see a morose Rachel Berry peering in.

You motion for her to come in, strangely glad for the idea of company, even if it is the drama queen herself. You're desperate for _anything _to keep your mind off this pain.

"Hey, Rachel, take a seat," you realize how strained your voice sounds, and you try to swallow the lump in your throat as Rachel sits down opposite you. "What's on your mind?"

"Everything," she sighs, and by the look on her face, you're afraid she might burst into tears. "Ever since I made that stupid, stupid video to try to give myself a promiscuous reputation, it's been awful. Jesse won't even look at me. Finn looks at me too much—but he looks like a sad, kicked puppy. And Noah's been saying the most awful things to me…"

She's talking a mile a minute, and you're not even quite sure what this video is she's talking about. You try to focus, but the pain in your abdomen is pulsing. You let in a sharp intake of breath. "Rachel…I think you…need to…back up a little…" you manage through clenched teeth. You can feel the tears springing from the corners of your eyes, and you lean over, rubbing your side as the pain increases.

"Ms. Pillsbury? Are you alright?" Rachel stands up, approaching you, and you flinch tremendously as she places her hand on your shoulder. She quickly withdraws it, looking at you with a concerned expression. "I'll go get someone…"

"No!" you hiss, feeling the tears begin to run down your cheeks. "I'm …fine. Rachel, really, just a…little stomach pain…"

She doesn't believe you for a minute, and as she exits the office, you know she'll be back shortly with the school nurse in tow.

You rest your head against the cool surface of the desk, not realizing how hot and flushed you are. The tears continue to trickle slowly from your eyes, and you curse yourself for not heeding the signs and staying home this morning. This would've been much easier to handle at home with a heating pad in bed.

The door swings open a moment later, and Rachel bursts in with Will—damn it—following close behind.

"See, Mr. Schue, she really doesn't look so great…I'm worried," Rachel informs him, motioning toward your quivering frame.

"Thank you, Rachel," he tells her, a calm controlled tone in his voice. "You can get back to class now—I'll handle it from here."

Rachel hesitates. You can tell she wants to stay, but Will gives her a significant glance, and she's out of the office a moment later.

"Emma," he says softly.

"Go away," you tell him, wiping the tears away from your face. He's the last person you want to deal with right now.

"Emma," he says again, approaching you. He rests his hand gently on your arm, and though you desperately want to pull away, you can't make yourself jerk out of his comforting touch. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to burst into tears. "What hurts?"

You don't want to answer. You don't want his help, but as he begins to stroke your arm gently, you don't want him to go away either. "Right here," you whisper, resting your shaking hand on your lower abdomen.

"Okay," he mutters, looking thoughtful. He bites his lip, looking at you with concern. "How long have you been in pain?"

"Since last night," you tell him, when you realize your words are a lie. "Actually, it's been kind of minor for the past few days…" You've just been ignoring it, passing it off for symptoms of heartache.

"Have you called a doctor?"

You shake your head vigorously. Not need to involve a doctor unless it's completely necessary.

"Em, I think you definitely need to call a doctor about this. Or go into the emergency room," he adds, and your eyes widen in terror at just the suggestion.

"Ok, I'll call," you tell him, smoothing the material of the skirt in your lap, giving your hands something to do.

"Right now," his voice is firm as he picks your cell phone up from your desk, handing it to you.

"I'll just wait until I get home," you mutter, placing the phone securely in your purse. You wince as a wave of pain shoots through your abdominal region.

"Emma," Will warns, giving you a significant glance, but your anger and frustration are rising as well. You glare at him, refusing to retrieve the phone from your purse.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching into his pocket to pull out his own phone. He pages through his contacts, pressing the phone to his ear after a moment.

"Wait, Will! Stop! Who are you even calling?" you begin to hyperventilate.

"Yes, hello," you hear him speak calmly into the receiver. "I have a…friend here with me. She's been experiencing some severe abdominal cramping—" some silence, and you're debating whether or not to rip the phone away from his ear—"She's had some pain for the past few days, but it's only been severe since last night—and it's been getting worse, right Em?" he glances toward you, waiting for you confirmation. You glare at him, hating him more than you ever have in this moment. "Em, have you had you appendix out?" You don't answer. "Emma, you need to answer me." You shake your head no. He returns his attention to the person on the line. "Okay, um hmm. Thank you. We'll be there shortly."

You're shaking now—from both anger and the intensity of the pain.

He flips his cell phone shut, rising from his chair. "Come on, Emma, gather you things. I'm going to take you into the ER."

"What?" you screech, planting your feet firmly on the ground. "Will, I am _not _going to the emergency room—you're being ridiculous. And who the _hell _did you just call?"

"Emma, please calm down," he tells you as you shoot him a fiery glare. "I called the general hospital, and they suggest that anyone who has been having abdominal cramping for longer than two hours come in to be examined. It could turn out to be nothing serious, but it could also be something more severe such as appendicitis—and that can be dangerous if not taken care of." You sigh heavily, remaining firmly seated in your chair. "I know you don't want to go, and I can only begin to imagine how much you hate the hospital, but Emma, you need to take care of yourself, and right now that means mustering the maturity to go get this taken care of."

So now he's implying that you're immature. But you can't really argue that as you remain planted in your chair, your arms crossed defiantly across your chest.

"I-I can take myself to hospital," you tell him, rising from your chair. You nearly collapse from the sudden burst of pain. Will steadies you, keep a firm grasp on your arm.

"There is no way I'm letting you behind a wheel in your condition," he tells you, grabbing your embroidered grey cardigan from the hook behind your door and helping you slip into it.

"But Will, you have classes to teach here—and Glee practice after school today," you try to reason with him. "It'd be an inconvenience to take me to the ER."

"Em, right now your health is more important that all of that—and I don't give a damn what you say. I'm taking you, Emma, and it'd be a hell of a lot easier if you'd just cooperate."

You don't know what to say. You've never seen him so angry and harsh with you—though you can't blame him; you've hardly been pleasant to him after all this concern he's been showing.

"Fine," you mutter, because you know he's right.

He picks up your office phone, dialing Principal Figgins' extension. You listen as he explains the situation—you can't imagine Figgins is going to be all too happy about finding two substitutes—but he can't argue a medical emergency.

"Ready?" Will asks you, his expression softening slightly.

You nod, reaching for your purse as he opens the office door for you.

You're glad it's the middle of the class period, because you're in so much pain at this point that you need to lean on Will for support as the two of you slowly make your way out to his car.

"Sorry, it's not really that clean," he apologizes as he opens the passenger door for you. You notice some trash scattered across the floor and the stuffy air in the interior is far from pleasant, but you do realize it could be a heck of a lot worse. You try not to touch anything as you buckle in, placing your purse contently on your lap.

Will's silent as he places the key in the ignition. You bite back a whimper as the car jolts forward and the seat belt digs into your stomach.

"Sorry," he apologizes, looking at you with genuine concern.

You don't talk much on the way to the hospital. You're too busy trying not to cry out in pain, and Will still seems frustrated. You can't really blame him—driving the bitch who destroyed his reputation in front of the entire staff can't be his ideal way to spend a Wednesday morning.

You want to throw up as Will helps you out of the car, leading you toward the menacing brick building. Once in the waiting room, you check in, which turns out to be a relatively quick process because you've been here before. Though the hospital is one of the most horrifying place you can think of, it is the only place you can get a full decontaminating shower—which thankfully you have only needed to utilize twice since you've moved to Lima.

"I hate waiting," you mutter as you sit down on the vinyl chair you just took five minutes to wipe down with the emergency pack of Clorox wipes you keep stashed in your purse.

"I know, Em." Will smiles sympathetically at you as he sits down in the seat beside you. He reaches for your hand. You're hesitant to take it at first, but as a fresh onslaught of pain twists in your stomach, you realize just how much you need him right now.

You bite back tears once again. Thankfully, a nurse comes to lead you back to a curtained sector. You hesitate, cringing as you try not to think of the prior occupant. Will's still holding you hand, and he leads you gently as he help you sit on the edge of the gurney. The nurse takes your vitals and then hands you a grungy looking hospital gown, instructing you to remove everything except for your undergarments.

You stare at the disgusting hospital gown—you know it's been washed, but that doesn't change the fact that ill and injured people have soiled in it the past.

"I'll just step out for a minute," Will courteously tells you, closing the curtain as he leaves you to change.

First, you remove your pumps and stockings, placing them neatly on the bed beside you. You hesitate as you reach for the zipper of your skirt. You really hate feeling so vulnerable and exposed. You add the skirt to your pile of possessions, reminding yourself to breathe as you reach for your blouse. Sitting there on the gurney in your lacey bra and underpants make you want to cry, but you fight the tears as you reach to pull the hospital gown over your head.

It smells vile, almost causing you to gag. And suddenly you just can't handle it. Tears slowly begin to seep out of the corners of your eyes. "W-w-will?" you stutter softly.

He pushes back the curtain, taken back as he sees you there, sobbing in nothing but your under garments, holding the hospital gown an arms distance away.

"Shh, Em," he soothes, rubbing your bare shoulder reassuringly. These certainly weren't the circumstances you'd ever dared to imagine that Will Schuester would see you half naked.

"It smells," you tell him, as if that explains everything. He glances down at the gown, and you're afraid he's going to tell you to toughen up and just put the damn thing on.

But instead, he surprises you as he takes the gown from your grasp. "I'll be right back."

You don't have time to question him as he disappears outside the curtain.

"Excuse me," you hear his voice just down the hall. "I was wondering if I could get a clean gown?"

"What's wrong with the one you're holding?" the nurse asks, clearly irritated.

"Nothing—but my friend has a bit of an issue when it comes to germs. She's already in a lot of pain and discomfort and having a new gown would make her stay here a hell of a lot easier."

You can't help but to smile as he stands up for you, and you feel a sense of pride that he's willing to fight for you.

The conversation becomes too muted for you to hear, and you can only assume he's following the irritated nurse further down the hall. He returns a moment later, holding a sealed plastic bag, a triumphant look on his face.

You smile at him through your pain, hardly caring that you're sitting in front of him in barely any clothing. He tears open the bag, revealing a brand new hospital gown.

"Thank you," you murmur as he hands you the garment. He doesn't bother to leave this time as you slip the gown on. You fumble with the string in the back—the gown's much too large for your tiny frame. You feel engulfed by thin material.

"Here, let me help you with that," he offers, approaching you to fasten the string. His fingers brush softly against the skin of your neck, causing you to quiver under his touch. For a moment, he doesn't move, and as you lift your gaze to meet his, your breath hitches slightly.

"Thanks, Will," you tell him, and you are genuinely thankful. For everything.

He smiles at you, sitting in the hard plastic chair situation near the foot of your gurney. "How's the pain?"

"I don't think it's getting much better," you tell him truthfully. "I just think I'm getting, you know, used to it…"

It feels like an eternity before a doctor comes in to examine you.

"Hello," the woman tell you pleasantly. "I'm Dr. Greene. You must be Emma Pillsbury."

You nod, trying to shift your body into a sitting position. You gasp in pain, and Will's immediately by your side, helping you situate yourself.

"And how are you related to Emma?" Dr. Greene curiously asks as she approaches the gurney, flipping through her papers.

"I'm just a friend," Will tells her, and further explains, "We work together."

She nods. "Well, Emma you're lucky such a sweet guy waiting here with you. Now what brings you here today? Something about severe stomach cramps?" She reads off her clipboard.

You nod, explaining your symptoms.

"Okay, stomach pains like these can mean a plethora of things. When was your last menstrual cycle?"

"Last week," you answer, turning you gaze away from Will.

"So about six to seven days ago, you'd estimate?"

You nod.

"And do you have cramping with your period?"

Will's rubbing circle on your hand with his thumb, trying to encourage you not to be embarrassed.

"Just minor cramping—and it would never last this long after I've had it," you dutifully answer.

"And your last bowel movement?"

"Two days ago," you mutter. "And no, I don't think these cramps are being caused by constipation. I'm not typically, uh, regular…" you trail off, blushing deeply.

"Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"

"No!" you exclaim, feeling quite hot now. "I'm not even sexually active," you add quickly, knowing that question will probably be next.

She nods, keeping notes on her clipboard.

When she asks to examine you, you stiffen. Will gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. After pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, she gently pulls up your gown. She's hardly even pressed down on your stomach before you're moaning in pain.

"Does it hurt more on your right or left side?" she asks, her gloves fingers gently skimming your lower abdomen.

"My right," you admit, whimpering. You just wish she'd stop touching you now.

"Now this is going to hurt, but I need to do this. I'm going to press down on your right side and then release. Okay?"

You nod, even though it's not okay. You squeeze Will's hand tighter as her gloved hand applies pressure to your stomach. It hurts, but not as much as you thought it would. She holds her hand there for a moment before releasing, and that's when the pain really hits you. You shriek as she lifts her hand, tears springing to your eyes once again.

"Well, I would say it's safe to say you have appendicitis," Dr. Greene explains, disposing of her gloves. "Though it's more common in children and teens, appendicitis in adults is not unheard of. Of course, since you are a menstruating woman, we need to consider that there might be a problem with either your ovaries or your uterus—possibly a ruptured ovarian cyst, which would cause this amount of pain in the same region as appendicitis. Here's what we're going to do—we're going to need to draw some blood. If your white blood cell count is high, it's another indication that you might have appendicitis—the white blood cell count increases when the body fights infection. We're also going to have you go upstairs for an ultrasound to rule out ovarian or uterine problems as the source of this pain. After the results from both those tests come back, we'll be able to decide what needs to be done next."

You nod, your head swimming from all this information.

"I'm scared, Will," you whisper once Dr. Greene has left.

He sits down on the gurney beside you, wrapping his arms reassuringly around your trembling frame. "I know, Em. But I promise everything's going to be okay, and I'll stay by your side the entire time."

He's true to his word. He lets you mercilessly squeeze his hand as they insert an IV to draw blood and give you fluids. He makes a trip to the cafeteria to buy you bottled water after a nurse arrives with large cup water, telling you that you must drink this before they can perform an ultrasound. The water's slightly off color, and you swear you see a hair floating in there, and before you can even get yourself upset about it, Will comes to your rescue with two large bottled waters.

He holds your hand as the ultrasound technician rubs the sticky blue gel across your pale stomach. It feels weird to look up at the dark screen as she gently presses on your stomach with the sensor. You almost expect to a tiny outline of baby swimming on the screen—after all, you never thought of any other reason you'd need to get an ultrasound.

You whimper as she presses down harder, and Will squeezes your hand reassuringly. "A lot of pain?"

"Actually," you whisper, "the pain from my full bladder almost feels worse right now."

He chuckles, lifting your hand softly to his lips. Your heart flutters.

As you leave, the technician looks at the pair of you, joking that the next time you'll be here is because you'll have a bun in the oven. You don't bother to correct her on your relationship as you climb back into the wheelchair they brought you up in.

The nurses wheels you back down to the curtained room where you previously waited. She hooks you up to an IV, giving you some morphine for the pain. She assures you that a doctor will be in shortly to inform you of your test results.

The morphine makes you pleasantly drowsy, and your head falls softly against Will's shoulder as you fight slumber.

"Just sleep, Em," Will tells you, running his fingers gently through your tangled hair. "I promise I'll wake you as soon as the doctor arrives."

"Thanks, Will," you tell him. "For everything. For staying here with me when I know it's really not convenient for you. I'm sorry."

"Don't you start apologizing on me," he warns you. "I'm more than happy to stay here with you—and trust me, if I didn't want to, I would've just dropped you off at the front entrance to let you fend for yourself. Em, I care about you, and I can honestly tell you that there's no other place I'd rather be than here with you."

You feel hot tears spill from eyes, the first ones today that aren't pain induced. You allow yourself to lean against his shoulder, melting into his embrace. You've just begun to doze when the curtain slides open.

It's a doctor, but not Dr. Greene from earlier. He introduces himself as Dr. McClain from surgery, and you feel your stomach drop.

Surgery.

"Well, your ultrasound results show that there are no abnormalities with uterus or ovaries, and your white blood cell count is slightly elevated, which has led us to diagnose you with acute appendicitis."

The color drains from you face as you scoot closer to Will, feeling queasy.

He waits a moment before continuing. "The only treatment for appendicitis is a surgical procedure. Of course, since we can't ever be one hundred percent certain it is actually appendicitis, twenty percent of the time when we operate we discover another cause of the pain instead. Now don't let this make you nervous—at this point, even if it's not your appendix, which it mostly likely is, a surgery is necessary to discover the cause of your intense pain nevertheless."

You're finding it difficult to breath at this point, and Will's rubbing circles on your back, trying to get you to calm down.

The surgeon warily continues. "Though this is general surgery-meaning you'll be completely under for the procedure, it is typically a fairly simple procedure. Unlike in the past when we would've made a three inch incision on your right side to remove the appendix, we can now perform the same procedure laparoscopically. That means we'll be able to remove the appendix by making three tiny incisions that will heal much faster than the larger incisions of the past. Now even if it's not your appendix, we'll still remove it so it won't cause you any problems in the future. If it is not the appendix, we'll continue to search for the root of the problem while we are operating. Sometimes we can easily fix another problem surgically, while other times we may need to perform a more in depth procedure once discovering the problem. Other times, we find a problem that cannot be fixed surgically at all…"

You can hardly focus on his words any more and your mind goes in and out of focus.

Surgery.

You would've never thought when you woke up in pain this morning that it would've led to a surgical procedure.

"Do you have any questions, Em?" Will's words bring you back to the present.

"So I don't have a choice?" you whisper.

"Well, technically we can't operate on you without your consent, but as far as other options go, no. Surgery is the only answer for your current condition."

You cry, this time not bothering to hold in your tears. Will holds your reassuringly in his arms, trying to soothe you in your inconsolable state. The surgeon glances at your nervously.

As Will rocks you, he asks the surgeon the necessary questions you are in no state to ask yourself.

"A nurse will be here shortly to take you down to surgery," the surgeon tells you before exiting.

"I don't want to get surgery!" you wail as soon as he is out of sight.

"Shh, Em, I know you don't," Will tries to reason with you. "But it's your only choice. Besides, you heard the surgeon—you'll be in a lot less pain than you are now once you wake up."

You sniffle. The words aren't very reassuring, but at least they're something.

A nurse arrives a few minutes later. You're surprised when she has no wheelchair; you aren't sure if you can handle walking. You start to slide down from the gurney when the nurse stops you.

"No, sweetie, you can stay up there. We're going to wheel you down on the bed."

Will help you get situated on the gurney as the nurse wheels you to the elevator. He doesn't let go of your hand the entire time.

Once down in the surgical ward, you're told you're going to have to wait. Since you're an add-on surgery, it could be a little while before they can squeeze you in. Meanwhile, you're told to take off your makeup, nail polish, and jewelry while you wait.

You feel ugly and bare, which causes you to cry once again. Will only continues to soothe you as you wait. He encourages you to sleep, but you're too wound up to even consider it. You rock back and forth on the gurney, gasping for breath between your tears.

After an hour of waiting, the anesthesiologist comes out to meet you. He's a short, round man with comforting smile, and his jovial voice calms you down a bit.

"Have you ever had a surgical procedure, darling?" he asks you, reaching out to shake your hand. You hesitantly take it. You hate the simple handshaking gesture, but you're so beyond yourself that a little germ exchange isn't going to kill you.

"I had my wisdom teeth out in high school," you mutter. "But I don't know if that counts…"

"Of course it counts!" he chuckles. "You're already an old pro at this surgery thing. Now we're going to take you back shortly, but right now, I'm going to give you a strong dose of morphine, so don't be surprised if it makes you feel a little loopy."

Will holds your hand as he injects the morphine into your IV line, and almost at once, you feel light headed.

"Ready, darling?" the anesthesiologist asked, getting ready to wheel your bed back into the operating room.

"You'll be fine, sweetheart," Will reassures you, bending over to brush a kiss against your forehead.

"No, Will, I don't want you to leave me!" you are on the brink of hysteria now, and you feel the endless tears begin to spill from eyes once again.

"Honey, I can't come back with you," he tries to reason with you. "You're going to be asleep in no time—you won't even know I'm not there."

"No, Will, no, no, no!" you've completely lost it at this point, and you refuse to let go of his hand. The panic courses through you body, and you're afraid you're going to be sick. "Don't leave. Don't leave me. You promised! I need you!" you choke over your words.

"Emma, honey, please," tears edge his own words, and you know your behavior is hardly fair, but you're just so damn scared. "I would come back in heartbeat if I could, but you're going to have to be a strong girl on your own now. You've been so brave today already, and I _know _you can do this." He bends down to kiss your forehead once again.

"But I'm so, so, scared!" you wail, hardly able to focus on Will's face through your teary eyes.

"Darling, I'm going to place this over you face," the anesthesiologist gently tell you, bringing a mask toward your face.

"No!" you scream. You don't want that horrible thing on your face. You just want to go home. You just want this all to be over.

"Emma, honey, try to take a deep breath," Will strokes your hair as he says the words, but you are too beyond yourself.

The anesthesiologist manages to shove the mask over your face which sends you into hysterics as you try to rip it off.

"What are you giving her through the mask?" you hear Will's concerned voice, though it sounds like it's miles away.

"Just some laughing gas—it will lightly knock her out until we put her under back in the operating room. It's just…"

You don't hear anymore. His words begin to swim like a dream in your mind. You manage to open you eyes one final time, catching a glimpse of Will's face, before your eyelids flutter shut.

And then everything goes black.

XXXXX

When you wake up, you feel as through you're coming out of a thousand year slumber. Your head's clouded, and no matter how hard you try to focus, you can't seem to fully emerge from your sleepy state.

The voices of the nurses sound far away, though as you try to focus, they gradually become clearer.

"How's your pain, sweetie?" a blonde nurse approaches your gurney. You try to prop yourself up, but she immediately pins you back down. "Try to lie still, honey. Your pain?" she asks again.

You try to feel you body, but you still feel detached. You feel a slight ache in your belly, but it's not nearly as horrible as before. "Not too bad," you manage to rasp. Your throat hurts terribly, and your voice sounds funny in your ears, as though you weren't the one who spoke the words.

"That's good, sweetie," the nurse smiles at you, brushing your hair away from your face and you can't bother to care that her bare hands are touching you. "I'm going to give you just a little morphine if the pain's not too bad."

"My throat…" you whisper, wincing from the pain.

"Oh yes, that's because the intubated you—stuck a tube down your throat to give you oxygen—during the procedure. You can have some water once they bring you up to your room."

You wince, trying not to think of a tube being shoved down your throat. "When can I go up to my room?" Really, you're asking when will you be able to see Will.

"They're going to take you up right now, sweetie." She smiles at you, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.

You drift in and out of consciousness as they wheel you toward the room. As they transfer you from the gurney to the hospital bed, you ask the question that's been plaguing your mind. "Where's Will?"

"Your boyfriend?" the transfer man clarifies; you nod, not bothering to correct him. "I'll call down right now so they can send him up."

You wait impatiently, fighting to keep your tired eyes open. You're about to surrender to slumber when you see Will enter through the open door.

He's immediately at your side. He leans over to plant a kiss on your cheek, but you turn your head to face him and his lips end up on yours instead. His breath tastes sweet and minty, and you try not to imagine how horrible your mouth tastes. His lips move softly against yours, and you dare to part your lips to allow Will's tongue to slip in.

After a few moments, you break apart, gasping for breath. "Sorry," you apologize, feeling embarrassed. After, you aren't dating or anything and you acted like an insane woman to him only hours before.

"What are you sorry for?" he mutters, leaning over to kiss you again. God, you've missed the feel of those lips against yours.

"For all of this—for freaking out before surgery, for monopolizing your whole day, for—"

He silences you with another kiss. You're now fully alert and aware of your body. You reach up to lace your finger through his curls, and as he pulls away, you smile.

He orders some water for your aching throat, and while you wait, he flips through the TV stations, occasionally leaning over to press a soft kiss to your lips.

By the time you water comes, you're almost asleep. Will manages to get you to drink an entire cup, and by the time you're done, that and that fact that you're still attached to your IV and receiving fluids have you desperate to use the toilet.

Will helps you out of bed, supporting you with his strong arms as he leads you into the bathroom.

"What's that?" you look at the container in the toilet with a horrified expression on your face.

Will can't help but to chuckle. "They just want to measure your urine so they can make sure you're not dehydrated."

You groan, but your urge to relieve yourself is stronger than your disgust. Will doesn't even ask if he should leave the bathroom, and you're glad because you're afraid you knees may give out if he lets go. You're so far beyond embarrassment as you pull down your panties and Will continues to hold your arms for support as you squat over the toilet.

"Thanks, Will," you mutter, washing your hands thoroughly before exiting. You noticed the shower in the corner of the facility. You bite back the urge to request to shower—you know you'll have to wait at least a day before you can get your incisions wet.

Will helps you back into bed, and you are pleasantly surprised when he crawls in with you, holding you tightly against his chest.

"Want anything to eat, or are you ready to go to sleep?" he asks you.

"Sleep," you mutter. The thought of food makes you feel sick, and your head is throbbing too much to even consider sitting up.

His grasp tightens around you. "I'm sorry," he tells you, and you're about to ask him what he's sorry for when he continues. "I'm sorry that it had to come to this for us both to realize we need each other. I want to promise you that I won't hurt you ever again, but I can't say that for sure…and I'd feel awful if I did promise you that and I did end up causing you pain. But I can promise you that I'm going to try—I'm going to try damn hard to never hurt you again, and I can promise you that I'm never going to let another woman come between me and you. I want to be here for Emma, for as long as you'll let me. I just hope that I can be enough for you."

"You've always been enough for me," you mutter, managing to turn your body so you can face him. "It's me that was never enough—me and expectations, and I've learned that with love comes disappointment, and sometimes you have to work through the disappointment for things to work out." You lean in to kiss him, and you can feel him smiling beneath your lips.

Neither of you say anything else. Nothing else needs to be said, at least not now. You snuggle deeper into his arms, realizing that it's not so horrible to need to depend on someone else after all.


End file.
